DCCoD Prom

The DCCoD is... well, it's just great.

The venerable Fatmarc Vanderbacon, host of the Prom and curator of all things blogtasic, invited me to join his crew for their informal off-season soiree. While his prom-posal didn't quite measure up to the lofty standards set in my favorite implausible cartoon, I was more than honored - the most I've ever contributed to the DCCoD was when I helped take down the course-tape at Granogue (when I rode through it mid-race).

They welcomed me into their group on Saturday night, and it warmed my little heart. These are my people, like. The house was packed with the cast of characters, many of whom I vaguely recognized from parking lot preriding and post-race handshakes, but most of whom had been strangers before the Prom.

You had to be there. No more stories, it wouldn't do.

In the morning, more than 30 people (I tried in vain to count) met at the Vanderbacon-Monkey estate to ride the blog-famous Fair Hill singletrack. Of course, we posed for a photo beforehand, because it's what cyclists do.

Why do cyclists act like such, well, posers? Does having a half-dozen professional photographers at every race spoil us? Is the pre-ride photo a record by which Search-and-Rescue squads can identify the shattered remains of whoever hadn't ridden enough base miles to survive? I think it's the knowledge that by the time we return home, we'll all be too shelled for standing, let alone posing.

So we did what we do.
And it looks awesome.

With 30 people on the ride, it was a bit overwhelming. I've been in smaller races. The pack stayed surprisingly cohesive, which I think is something in and of itself. From the back of the group, I watched dozens of riders, mostly in blue, snake their way along switchbacks up a hill. It was aesthetically pleasing, and I wish I had a picture of it for you.

Even in mid-January, I'd expected to be armed with some fitness and some skills, but my ammunition was all nerf, and I got whupped. It's okay, they're really fast.

Also they toasted the New Year.
In the middle of the woods.

Rather than lament my early-season status, I opted to work on my secondary skills, the ones I've honed over years of chasing Charlie and Jay. When I bobbled on easy obstacles, I cursed myself as bitterly and poetically as possible. When I bobbled in tougher spots, just barely saving it, I made noises, trying to empty the lungs in order to force myself to start breathing again. Through every loose turn and over every surprising log, every time my wheel wasn't where I'd expected, I let out a celebratory "woo hoo!", recognizing the joys of off-roading as well as the miracle by which I wasn't laid out on the frozen ground. Every so often I made a wrong turn... for practice, I told myself, and it was too cold for my cheeks to blush beet-red.

I will return to Fair Hill, and I will figure out how to ride this.

When we returned to Casa del Faticus y la Monkey - which you should never try to find with Google Maps, or you will be banished to hours driving through purgatory in rural Delaware - there were waffles and eggs and bacon. I could've wept, it smelled so good.

And then Mayhew started making cup after cup of espresso, with his fancy hand-press. I lost count of my intake after 4 cups, and I wasn't the only customer. He didn't even have time to change out of his shorts. He's good people.

Why is it that every post about the DCCoD seems sycophantic? Why can't they just be jerks?